Friday, May 28, 2010

The Late Photographer

Photo credit: dorituz from

Chevelle played on the radio and Kade sang through his surgical mask as he worked. Blake knew the tune too, but he was serious for once. The cd ended in the player as Kade readied the autopsy equipment.

“Casey Manson, age 21, white female, date of death five May-ten,” Kade said into the recorder. “Visual inspection shows third-degree burns on hands and forearms, second-degree on upper arms. No other remarkable injuries, bruises, cuts or scrapes. Livor mortis appears fixed, rigor is moderate. Deceased is neither emaciated or obese. Pupils dilated.” He clicked off the recorder.

“Did the photographer come in yet?” His eyes were dark behind his glasses over the mask. Blake blinked and shook his head.

“Shit,” Kade said, and walked away from the decee through the door. He pulled his mask then his latex gloves off.

“She’s never on time.”

“Relax Kade,” Blake said and peeled off his mask too. “It’s not like the decee is going anywhere.”

Kade shot him a look. “She could rot before Wendy gets here.”

“Keep your gloves on,” Wendy said with a pop of gum as she strolled in, fresh as a summer breeze. Blake couldn’t help a double-take. She was wearing a micro-mini, fuchsia tights and low boots. Kade scowled at her wardrobe choices.

Wendy McGee was one of those girls—the kind that wanted to do one thing but settled for something completely different. Taking pictures of stiffs (as she called them) was never really where she saw herself ending up.

“Hey relax,” Wendy said with a Finesse-worth swish of champagne-blonde hair, “I’ve got scrubs in the locker. Give me a minute.” She paused at Blake and met his blue eyes with hers before shoving a black leather bag at him.

“Hang onto my camera while I get suited up.” She brushed past him to the prep room. Kade and Blake exchanged glances at the clop-clop of her boots hitting the floor one after another.

“I hope she’s not intending on wearing those things in there,” Kade growled.

“You know girls,” Blake said and sat the bag down carefully.

“Who in the hell photographs a decee on the way to a date?”

Kade Pherson'd worked at Sisters of Mercy Hospital as lead pathologist for going on eleven years. He ran a hand through his hair and pushed his glasses up on his nose.

“I was hoping I could get the auto out of the way before Dexter came on.”

“Dexter huh?” Blake snickered, “Should we be scared?”

Kade glared at him.

Blake had six months of interning left and then he was back in the lab, unless the hospital wanted to keep him for themselves.

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